About Me

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By trade I am a journalist with a background in current affairs, culture, health and fitness, travel and high profile interviews. I also own and run an outdoor fitness business aimed at people that hate gyms and bootcamps (www.spartanfitnesslondon.co.uk). Most importantly though, I am on Shared Parental Leave from May 31 to October 3. Everyday from 0730 to 1800 I will be in sole charge of a real and completely awesome baby girl.


Monday, 20 June 2016


Daddyshortlegs stag breakfast
Bowl of Sausages

IT was 0830 and I was on the end of a 90-minute lie-in thinking about how, for one more day, I didn't need to worry about preparing porridge fingers or steamed apple for my baby girl's breakfast. I really missed the little munchbunch but for a few more hours I still only had myself to look after.

Wrong. I was still on a Stag-Do and I the bunch of ne'er-do-wells remained on my booking – which apparently meant I was chief hand-holder, feeder and bottom-wiper.

I meandered downstairs to the gourmet spread laid on by the Holiday Inn Express and fixed myself some apple juice (note: too sweet; clearly has sugar added) and some muesli, ahead of beans on toast. I then looked across the table to see that one of the esteemed stag-party members was tucking into a bowl of sausages, or at least excuses for sausages. 

"First time eating breakfast, mate"? 

"Oh I wasn't thinking, I just got a bowl, not a plate. I forgot". 

"Ok, well remember not to pour milk and cereals on to a plate".  

High calibre stuff. 

Being thrust into the world of child rearing makes you more organised, better able to act quickly and 500 per cent more capable to think on your feet, in situations like projectile liquid missiles being fired from down below. However, one skill I didn't expect to gain from the being a new Dad, was the capacity to deal with 25-30-year-old neanderthals on a "lads" weekend. It does though, for if it wasn't for my time spent with the A-bomb I wouldn't have been as well prepared for these chaps. Sorting their meals; making sure their rooms weren't too cold or indeed, too warm; ensuring their nap times were on schedule and that they achieved enough sleep; and giving everyone the right amount of play time to suit their needs, were all essential. Thankfully almost everyone managed to change their own nappies. 

Breakfast was gobbled and we hit the road. A thoroughly enjoyable time was had but I needed to get back to my baby. It was Father's Day after all and no doubt she was waiting for me with a handwritten card and her latest piano composition.

Out of the car, into the house, up the stairs. A crying A-Bizzle was handed straight to me... "she won't sleep, please assist". Hi darling.

Sure... no problemo. Trainers on...  and into a 200-metre buggy sprint. Aaaaannd she was asleep. "Won't sleep? You mean won't sleep for you," I said in my head and after checking the Milk Lady was out of sight. 

It was understandable though, the Lady had been waiting for Daddy before catching some Zs. Too many amateurs around, not knowing the right sleep-inducing techniques*. 

*I have hidden all sharp objects and other potential weapons

On waking I mentioned that in the 2.5 days that I'd been away The Stinkbomb had grown to resemble a professional darts player... her mullet haircut was in good shape, the pot-belly was in peak condition and her arms were particularly Popeye-esque. 

"Dya wannabe a dart's player?" I shouted in her face.
"Go one ma darlin', be a darts player!
"Darts! Darts! Darts!" 

She loved the proposition and signed a contract with her gumdrop smile. I will admit that for the next couple of minutes I lost my mind but it was worth it. 

"One HUNDRED AAAAAAAND EIIIIGHTY! (180)," I bellowed into the air, while A-bomb sat on her Mum's lap. Both looked at me bemused. 

I repeated it... "180!" 

The baby laughed. I continued, with each rendition getting louder, more aggressive and involving more jumping and twirling. 

After round ten my little lady was laughing so much that she nearly burst. For the grand finale I ran to the front of the house (10 feet away - It's no mansion), hit the floor and crawled along so that I was out of my audience's eye-line. I moved into position right under A-bomb's nose then sprung up with a shout of "ONE HUNDRED AND EEEEEEEIIIIIIIGGGGGHHHHTYYYYY (180)". 

She jumped out of her skin and laughed for about a minute while struggling to breathe. And, for me THAT is what Father's Day is all about. It was my first as a Father and if I can get that reaction to my fairly simple, oft misunderstood, yet genius comedy, a few more times on this day, I will be a very happy man. 

1 comment:

  1. Happy first Father's Day. Nothing better than hearing your children laugh :)